Eyebrow Disaster

I had a bad head cold, was heavily medicated, sleep deprived, and decided to dye my eyebrows.

I am a natural blonde with invisible eyebrows. I do not care for the drawn-on look, so I boost their color with Just For Men / Mustache and Sideburn Dye. I always buy the medium blonde dye which gives the brows just the right natural shade of  light brown. I use an old mascara wand to apply the dye, and although I am a blonde, to fairly bushy eyebrows. When applying the dye, I usually catch some fuzz, above the brows, that is not visible when I am not wearing my glasses. I then, delicately, ‘shape’ the brows after the dying is complete.

I had a bad head cold, was heavily medicated, sleep deprived and applied eyebrow dye at midnight.

Never trust that the contents of a box of dye are what the outside of the box declares. I applied the dye and read a novel, which had me captivated, while waiting for the dye to set. I lost track of time. When I washed the dye off and looked in the mirror…well…let’s just say that crazed wailing began and snot was soon slinging!

The box did not contain the light brown shade I wanted. I now sported a dark brown, almost black, caterpillar, a forehead mustache, a unibrow! Some moron must have thought it would be cute to switch the dye in the boxes. I used hydrogen peroxide, Clorox, 409 and Mean Green to lighten the color. All that did for me was to give me a shiny red forehead. I had to start the shaping process.

In my drugged, sleep deprived, state, I had managed to catch every wild hair and forehead fuzz along with, what I considered, the actual eyebrows. I started plucking at the bottom side of the unibrow and worked my way up. I plucked to the forehead fuzz and through, what I thought, was the center of the unibrow. When I finished I had a shiny red forehead and an off centered look of surprise on my face. The ‘new’ eyebrows sat much higher than the old set and the right brow sat too far to the right. I wailed all night.

The next day at work I kept my head down, as much as possible, and did not fraternize with my co-workers. I attended a meeting and sat in the back of the room, hoping I was invisible. But noooooo, I was called to the podium, to be presented with an award, and had to give an acceptance speech; I don’t even remember what I said. All I can be sure of is that whatever I said, it was with a total look of surprise on my face!

As I left the podium I kept my head down. I noticed, as I walked back to my seat, that my left big toe was sticking, prominently, through the toe of my pantyhose. On the toenail was a large, dark brown splat, of eyebrow dye. I could not have looked more surprised than I already did.  

It’s not easy being me.

Gasp!

A couple of years ago; I had the television turned to the morning news while trying to calculate out how many strawberry Pop Tarts I would have to eat to get my daily recommended amount of fruit. A news story came on about the exorbitant cost of going to a high school prom and how much money parents were shelling out. This brought back the memory of my own prom, where I paid for everything needed, without my parents shelling out a dime. I also paid for the ticket of my date (for which he still owes me – I figure that with interest it’s up to about five grand now).  As one memory rolled into another, I realized that I would soon be out of school for forty years!  My mouth fell open, causing all three chins to quiver, I dropped three jumbo boxes of Pop Tarts, and spilled my coffee. Forty years!  I needed to get into a shape that was not round. I had a year to prepare; I did not want to look like a Weeble at my class reunion! I needed to, gasp, start exercising. 

I grew up with Jack LaLanne, the exercise guru of the fifties and sixties. I think he came on TV right after Romper Room and before Felix the Cat. I remember him doing a lot of jumping jacks so that’s where I would start. I thought it would be easy. I was optimistic, even though, I had not done any jumping jacks since 1967.

I did not own any tennis shoes, but I thought I should put on white socks to look serious. I found one anklet and one crew sock; at least they were both white. Some serious calorie burning took place while trying to put them on. I located my fat sweat pants, and a T shirt, and donned them. It is hard to be optimistic when your fat pants are too tight, but I was ready to jump. I chose a room where the picture frames would not tilt and jumped…well…parts of me jumped. Some of me went up quick and some of me followed at a much slower pace. Parts passed each other. With my feet back on the ground some of me was still in the air. When everything slammed back to the ground I jiggled for a full five minutes. My glasses fogged. Woohoo! I was exercising!!  Exhausted, hot and a little light headed I collapsed in my recliner and took a swill of my Coke.

That one jump made me so sore that a whole week went by before I could do another one.

Quite a Load

As I was leaving work one afternoon, a voice behind me said, “Hey, Marta! That’s quite a load you’re carrying these days.” I gasped! He went on to say, “Yep, as my wife gets older, hers gets bigger, too.”

About the third or fourth blow to his upper torso, he croaked out, “Purse…purse”, and I thought, “Good idea!”, and began to swing my purse at him. I have never claimed to be a smart blonde; it took me five, or so, purse blows to realize that he was talking about my large purse and not my butt.

As I helped him back into his wheelchair, I pondered the size of my purse. I had no idea it was a clue, by its size, that I was getting older!

Damn.

The Cat, The Tub, My Butt

A couple of years ago, I had a new kitty.  Her name was Bob.  I thought she was a he, but she wasn’t.  Bob had a bobbed tail. She wandered up to my place and hung around my front door for a week. I began to feed ‘him’ and named ‘him’ Bob, after the tail, and soon he was an inside cat and a female.

Have you ever had a small kitty?  My legs looked like I had wrestled with a barbed wire fence and lost the battle. The same applied to my butt cheeks. I don’t know what it was about my rear that made this cat want to sink its claws into it, but it was a daily occurrence.  On most evenings, I could be found sitting at my kitchen table, reading or watching a small TV. My kitchen chairs had slats in the back and Bob just loved to sneak up behind me and attack through those slats. She learned, on how loudly I yelled, how fast she should run.    

I have lived in the same place for almost thirty years.  The garden tub, in the master bath, was a favorite of my children when they were young; they thought of it as an indoor pool. It is a fiberglass tub, which, are not known to last forever. On the top edge of the tub is a rather large crack. If you sit on the side of the tub it pinches the skin. To place the plug, or to turn on the faucets, you have to sit on the side of the tub and reach across it. I place a towel over the crack for protection.

One night, I stripped down to all of my glory, placed a towel on the tub crack, and stretched way across the tub, to put the plug in place. About the time I was totally stretched out, Bob pounced. I yelped, turned and jumped, the towel shifted, and I then plopped down, heavily, on the side of the tub. The tub crack and mine did not exactly line up and the tub crack caught the inside of my right butt cheek. There is no way to explain, without tears, hysterics, and the use of four letter words, how tender the inside of a right butt cheek is when tightly pinched. When I regained consciousness, Bob was nowhere in sight, and I was still attached to the tub. It was a very slow, and painful, removal process.  I am sure there was a nasty mark, but quite frankly, I wasn’t about to bend over to look.  I didn’t know where Bob was lurking and showing my ass was getting dangerous.

I came down with a bad case of cat scratch fever. I can no longer use the doctor I had to see; I don’t think they are supposed to laugh at their patients like that.

Bob escaped. I do not miss her, but do think of her every time I take a bath.

I placed duct tape on the crack; of the tub, not mine.

I HATE Housework

I know, in my heart, I was born to have a housekeeper.

I hate housework. I have never liked housework. I will never like housework.

When I was a kid I was the oldest of five.  My mom, an excellent housekeeper, would send us outside while she did her housework. My sister had horrible earaches, which kept her indoors, quite often, where she was witness to the art of house cleaning. I, unaware of what was happening indoors, sat out in the yard digging in the dirt with my brothers. My sister is now an excellent housekeeper; just like Mom. When I wish for my house to be clean I tend to go sit in the yard and wait for it to happen. Sometimes I even dig in the dirt. I am always surprised when I go back inside.

My house is full of cobwebs. I think of them as the perfect pets; no water or food needed, and no getting up to let them out at all hours. If I expect company during the holidays I toss a bit of glitter on them to give them a festive adornment - which brings to mind one of the happiest days of my life. It was approximately six years ago during a Christmas gathering at my sister’s home. I found a cobweb! I could hardly contain my inner glee!  I have never felt closer to her than I did on that day.

In order to vacuum my house I have to dust off the vacuum cleaner. When I get through using it I have to clean the filter. It seems rather redundant to have to clean the cleaner, clean, and then clean the cleaner again. I would rather just buy new carpet every couple of months. .

Since I live alone I do not have to wash dishes very often because I no longer cook. In fact, I use the oven to store my important papers. I use fine white paper plates and cups and any dishwashing tends to take place when I run out of forks. I have a service for forty eight.

How DO you keep baseboards clean? This has stumped me for years! I am getting too old to continue painting them.

I figured my income taxes this year in the dust on my furniture.

I do iron my clothes…but only what I am wearing for the day. Why spend hours ironing clothes you might outgrow before you wear them again? (That’s another subject for another day; heavy sigh.)

Anyway, my house needs to be cleaned and I do not want to do it. To keep from cleaning today I applied for seven jobs, read two books and four magazines, watched six hours of television, played games on the computer, plucked my mustache and eyebrows, discussed writing a resume for a neighbor, sat on the riding mower (and wished it would start), watched a new batch of kittens play with each other, polished my toe nails, took a nap, and now I am writing down my thoughts.  

I know, in my heart, I was born to have a housekeeper.

Old West Romance Novel Issues

I like to read and find myself at a total loss if I do not have a book, magazine or newspaper handy. Being unemployed, I find much more time on my hands for reading and my reading stash diminished quickly. A quick trip to the local Goodwill store replenished my supply, however, the choices were skimpy and I ended up with too many historical, old West, romance novels. I have issues with these books, but read them for the historical references and not necessarily for the flimsy plots.

Number one issue:  An evening gown, of silk, is in a satchel with petticoats, camisoles, shoes, favorite books left by a beloved parent, writing supplies, and two faded cotton day dresses. It will be packed for a two week stagecoach ride and will survive an Indian attack, a dangerous river crossing, a broken axle and an outbreak of pox (various varieties). It is not possible to just shake out the wrinkles, but, it does happen in every old West romance novel; at least twice.  

Issue number two: The out house (no pun intended). All damsels in these novels go to the outhouse, or privy, and come out again. It is never mentioned if she had to use a page out of a mail order catalog. She just goes in, comes out, gets thrown on a horse by a bad guy, rides off to a cave hideout and eats cold biscuits and jerky until the good guy sneaks up and rescues her.

Issue number three: The good guy chases the girl, she does not like him, resists him, he kisses her and she melts with previously unknown desire and is instantly in love. She will, however, doubt his love and leave him, at least once, and he has to save her ranch, catch a bad guy, fight some Indians, and then find her, again, to declare his undying love.

Issue number four: If a man and woman decide to marry, usually in a hurry, it is the guy who makes the wedding arrangements. He is always the one to find the preacher, buy a new set of clothes, get a shave and a haircut, buy the ring and make dinner arrangements at the only hotel in town. All of this is done before sundown while she bathes and is given a silk dress, which has been stored in an old trunk by the sister of the town doctor’s dead wife. It fits her perfectly after shaking out the wrinkles.  

Issue number five: A ribbon in the hair gives the woman the perfect hairstyle or she washes and rinses her hair with rainwater that is somehow collected during year five of a five year drought.

Issue number six: There is no way a woman will do that after riding a horse through the desert, wearing the same clothes for five heat scorched days, and relieving herself behind a boulder or a thicket of trees.

Issue number seven: The good guy usually gets shot, bleeds out all of his blood, but still manages to stay on his horse. It turns out to be only a flesh wound on his arm or his thigh. With either wound, it does not pain him enough to stop him from making her newfound desires surge.

Issue number eight: The cover photo. It irritates me that the people on the cover are not how the actual characters are described. A blonde on the cover may be a redhead in the book. The man on the cover may have straight, black, unkempt, hair and in the book he has sun bleached curls along his collar that she dares to run her fingers through.

Issue number nine: The main female character is never fat. Her mean cousin, the sheriff, the bad guy or step mother may be fat, but she is not.

Issue number ten: At the beginning of each novel the writer thanks everybody that helped her research the historical facts. If the writer takes liberty with a date, or an event that actually happened, she details the actual fact and explains why she has changed it to fit her story. You would think the researchers would find a reference, somewhere, that mentions you cannot shake a wrinkle out of silk. The writer never mentions it, but will go into great detail on the color, the piping, the sleeves, where the attached lace was made, the nip at the tiny waist, and how much skin is exposed in a low neckline.

There are some interesting bits of information in these books. I am pretty sure I can tan a hide, make soap or candles, keep a longhorn steer from running through my garden, pack a bullet wound if my stagecoach driver is shot, or cook corn mush and sweeten it with molasses. I also know how to make an Indian think I am a spirit god because I have blonde hair, a match or a mirror. I do draw the line at shaking a silk gown until the wrinkles disappear, it would be a waste of time. I would rather use that time to read another one of these horrible, horrible, books.

Hot Pants

When I was nineteen going braless was the norm and hot pants were the fashion rage.  Hot pants were mini boxy shorts with a matching top. My favorite outfit was a red, faux satin, material. The top buttoned up the front with six tiny, faux satin, covered buttons. I wore this outfit with control top support pantyhose, to keep some jiggle out of my wiggle, and tall, wedge heels.

A gold charm bracelet was my hot pant accessory for a night out, with my friend, Pam, to the Carswell Air Force Base NCO Club. The bracelet, unknown to me at the time, had a bad loop that held one of the charms. While in a stall in the ladies room at the club, I reached behind me and into my pantyhose, to up the ante on the seat of them. The loop on my bracelet caught inside the hose in the general area of halfway down my butt crack; I could not get it loose. I tried to reach it with the other hand, but, when you’ve leaned as far as you can, backward, and reached inside of your pantyhose, to obtain a good grip, the other hand will not reach the first hand. These were steel belted control tops and the gold loop refused to loosen its hold. It is impossible to pull tight pantyhose down, while leaning backward, with one hand caught behind your back in a small ladies room stall!

I learned that evening that women will not assist a hot, young blonde while she is leaning, awkwardly, with her wrist resting in her butt crack and her hot pants pooled down around her ankles. I, eventually, did pull the bracelet loose but it left a large hole in the middle of the pantyhose ass crack  area.

Any woman who has ever worn support pantyhose knows that what you have carefully squeezed into them will begin to slowly ooze out of a hole. When I left the ladies room it appeared that I had a large hamburger bun stuck in the seat of my satiny pants.

While gesturing, and trying to explain my butt bulge to Pam, the same bracelet (from hell) caught the front of my outfit and those stupid little satin covered buttons slipped out of their button holes. I flashed my bare boobs to two hundred guys, and Pam, in the NCO Club.

I loved the applause!  I am sure that if I did not have, by this time, BOTH butt cheeks fighting to ooze out the hole in my drawers, I would have danced all night.